Filia
by Merqurius
Summary: When he was a child, Mycroft decided to be the perfect host to his brother, based on Ancient Greek customs. Over the years, both he and Sherlock evaluate their relationship by comparing themselves to mythological heroes, while trying to keep each other safe.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. All hail to Moffat, Gatiss and Doyle.

Summary: When he was a child, Mycroft decided to be the perfect host to his brother, based on Ancient Greek customs. Over the years, both he and Sherlock evaluate their relationship by comparing themselves to mythological hero's, while trying to keep each other safe.

**Filia – Chapter 1**

Mycroft was many things to many people. To his parents, he was their eleven-year-old genius. Full of promise, but also a stranger to both of them. There was no warmth in their relationship, no understanding. Passive appreciation or replaced ambition, perhaps, but no love. To his classmates, he was an easy target. It was embarrassing for Mycroft to admit. He was smarter than all of them, could manipulate them without any effort, yet their fists were inescapable. It wasn't just physical violence, though. The sniggers when he raised his hand in class had made him nervous to speak up. And when the teacher had given him a turn and when the giggling had started, the words had stuck in his mouth and he'd officially become a stutterer. It only happened at school, never at home, so Mycroft kept it a secret. To his teachers, however, he'd subsequently started to be a figure of pity, though even they were distanced by his knowledge and formal manners. They never reached out to him.

To his four-year-old brother Sherlock, he was the world.

But eleven was the age when the adulation of a younger sibling was no longer enough to create an identity strong enough to form a protective shield against the world. Mycroft had begun to carefully build his own character. Intelligence and knowledge were a part of him, but he wanted to be more than that. He wanted to have a sense of honour, a sense of pride, a sense of _virtus_ that would ward off any humiliation.

Mycroft was top of his class in all his subjects, but in Greek and Latin he'd always done exceptionally well, even for his own standards. And when it came to honour, there was no better source to turn to than antiquity. It was ten o'clock in the evening and he was in bed, curled up with a small reading light to keep his parents from knowing he was still awake. He was reading a rather extraordinary passage on the custom of receiving guests in Ancient Greece when his studies were interrupted by the door to his room slowly opening.

Mycroft turned his head to look. Sherlock, one fist curled around the hem of his shirt, the other held at his side. Bare feet, lip trembling slightly. Nightmare, Mycroft concluded within half a second.

"Sherlock …" he began and was about to rebuke his brother for leaving his bed when he remembered that guests in Ancient Greece were welcomed regardless of their past transgressions. They were invited in, fed, clothed and the host would never even ask the identity and purpose of their visitors until days after their arrival. If honour was something he aspired, he might as well start tonight. "Come in."

A smile lighted Sherlock's face for a moment. He closed the door and padded towards Mycroft's bed, making his brother wince as he crawled underneath the covers and warmed his cold feet against his Mycroft's warm legs. Mycroft put away his book as Sherlock snuggled up to him.

"I wasn't scared." Sherlock muttered defiantly into Mycroft's nightshirt, his tiny fingers now curled around his brother's clothes. "'m not a baby."

"Of course you're not."

"Want a story."

"Do you, now?" Mycroft asked him, amused. "And what's the magic word?"

A cold foot kicked his shin, but not as hard as Sherlock would've done if he'd actually been angry. Or properly awake. "Story."

"Story, _please_."

"Story."

Mycroft sighed. They could go on like this for hours. Sherlock had clearly already decided that politeness was never going to be part of _his_ character. "Fine. Did I ever tell you about Castor and Pollux, or Polydeices, as the Greeks called him?"

"Stars?"

"No, not the stars. At least, no yet. Two brothers, who were born in Sparta, many, many years ago."

"Which am I?"

"Excuse me?"

"Castor or Pollux. Which one is me?" An insistent finger poked at Mycroft's ribs.

"Well, I suppose," Mycroft considered carefully, "if you were to be one of them, you'd be Pollux. He was the son of Zeus, the mightiest of all the gods, and therefore immortal. That means he could never die. But his brother Castor had a mortal man as father. And one day, after the brothers were betrayed by their enemies, Castor was hurt with a spear and was close to dying. But Pollux asked his father to help them and Zeus made an agreement with the two brothers. They could share death and life together. One day, they'd have to stay with Hades, the god who lived in the underworld with the shades of the dead, but the other, they'd be allowed to go with Zeus and the other gods to Olympos, the high mountain where they lived. That's how Castor and Pollux got to be together forever."

He looked down at his brother to find Sherlock sleeping soundlessly at his side. Lowering his voice, Mycroft whispered: "Would you be willing to do that for me, Sher? Bargain with the most powerful of the gods to save me? I'd do it for you. Without a second thought. But that's not the same thing. I wouldn't allow you to do it for me. You should always be the one with the gods in the sky. You're much too light to be down in the depths with me."

He threaded his fingers through Sherlock's soft curls and the sleeping boy drew a little closer to him.

"Son of the gods," Mycroft breathed. "That'd definitely be you."

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. All hail to Moffat, Gatiss and Doyle.

Summary: When he was a child, Mycroft decided to be the perfect host to his brother, based on Ancient Greek customs. Over the years, both he and Sherlock evaluate their relationship by comparing themselves to mythological heroes, while trying to keep each other safe.

Warning: Contains hints of Holmescest. That somehow happened. Can be easily ignored if it's not your thing, ;).

**Filia – Chapter 2**

The death of the father always tore a family apart. If he'd truly been a man of honour, Mycroft would've moved back home to take care of his mother and sixteen-year-old brother. However, he was twenty-three, not a man, but a student living at University. He was a boy, tasting freedom for the first time. He had friends here, studies that intrigued him and teachers that valued his opinion and sharp intellect. He wasn't stifled by expectations or held back by the desire to fit social norms which he'd outgrown. Mycroft was starting to come into his element and he felt no compulsion to give it up.

It was a quiet afternoon and he was sitting behind his desk in his own rooms, finishing up an essay on Roman politics. A cup of tea was cooling off beside him, a soft breeze came in through the open window. The knock on the door surprised him and he put his pen down mid-sentence, even though he knew he'd regret not finishing his train of thought later. Making his way to the door, he opened it slowly to reveal his younger brother. Sherlock's lip was bloody, he was panting and his face was flushed and angry.

"You should be at school."

It was the wrong thing to say. Sherlock pushed himself roughly past Mycroft into the room and turned back to his brother, practically shaking with rage. "You bastard. You have no idea, do you? You have no idea what it's like to live in that house now, after he … after _he_ died, do you? You came to the fucking funeral, pretended to be the perfect son for three seconds and then swanned off to your posh University to play your little mind-games with your so-called friends."

"Sherlock…"

"And you just left us! You left _me_, Mycroft. And mummy, she can't cope. You've got no idea what it's like. And every day I go to that shitty school," he briefly touched his busted lip and then drew his hand back in an annoyed gesture, "and then I return to that dark house and you, you should be there! You should either be there, with us, or you should take me with you." He finished his tirade rather more softly than he'd started.

"Sherlock, I can't…"

"No, of course you _can't_," Sherlock spat bitterly, trying to regain some of his angry bravado to cover the obvious pain in his voice. "Because you're so busy here, right? So busy being all important. So busy trying to be _him_. He was never there for us either. Glad to see you've taken him as your example."

"Don't talk about father like that!" Mycroft snapped, taking a step towards Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't retreat. In fact, he took a stride towards Mycroft himself. "I'll talk about him any way I like. He was my father too, you know. Even though he probably didn't want to be. And I'll tell you what I thought of him: he was a dick." Sherlock came right up to his brother now. They were almost the same height now. "He was an absent, ambitious, cruel dick."

Mycroft pushed him. He couldn't ever remember laying his hands on his brother before in anger, especially not as an adult. Sherlock stumbled back in surprise, but quickly regained his footing. There was a moment of silence in which the entire room seemed to hold its breath. Then he threw himself at his brother.

Mycroft went down hard and Sherlock landed right on top of him, punching wherever he could. Eteocles and Polyneikes. They were the names that shot through Mycroft's head as the back of his skull banged mercilessly against the carpeted floor. Father Oedipus was dead and the family descended from one Greek tragedy into the next. Two brothers first agreeing in harmony to rule together and then Eteocles refused to hand over the throne after one year. Polyneikes gathered the Seven generals against Thebes and marched on his brother.

Mycroft punched back, but with restraint. He hit in defence, but was careful not to really hurt his brother. Sherlock, however, had clearly made no such promises. The brothers rolled around over the floor, knocking against the desk, upsetting the cup of tea and ruining Mycroft's paper. It went on for several minutes, but Sherlock was skinnier than Mycroft and the elder brother finally managed to pin the younger one's hands above his head.

"Stop it!"

Sherlock panted, his eyes still glistening, but slowly Mycroft felt his muscles relax beneath his grip. When it was clear Sherlock wasn't going to fight again, Mycroft let him go and set himself a little apart from his brother, leaning with his back against his bed. He carefully pressed a handkerchief to his nose, which was bleeding, but luckily remained unbroken. "What happened to your lip?"

Sherlock snorted. "Guy at school insulted mummy. Believe me, he looks worse." He grimaced. "Anyway, they suspended me for two days, so you're wrong, I shouldn't be at school right now."

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock shrugged. "They suspend me all the time. Don't really care."

"Not about that," Mycroft said impatiently. "You were right. About what you said earlier. I'm sorry, I should've been there."

Sherlock got up from the floor and walked over to the bed, seating himself next to Mycroft, so close that their shoulders touched. "You were always a better host than a guest anyway."

Mycroft carefully placed his hand on his brother's knee. "Eteocles and Polyneikes."

Sherlock grinned. "I didn't bring the Seven. It's just me."

"You know what happened at the end, right?"

"They killed each other at the same time."

"Yes."

"You haven't killed me, Mycroft. Neither has _he_."

Mycroft sighed. "It's why I haven't come. I'd turn into him. You know that. I'd try to take his place and I'd turn into him. You don't deserve that."

"I want you."

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock's thin fingers closed themselves tightly around Mycroft's wrist. "I want you," he reiterated slowly. "And you could never be him."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. All hail to Moffat, Gatiss and Doyle.

Summary: When he was a child, Mycroft decided to be the perfect host to his brother, based on Ancient Greek customs. Over the years, both he and Sherlock evaluate their relationship by comparing themselves to mythological hero's, while trying to keep each other safe.

**Filia – Chapter 3**

It was his neighbour who first drew Mycroft's attention to the presence of an unwanted visitor. As he made his way through the corridor towards his expensive London apartment – politics was treating him well -, his arm was grabbed by Mr Jefferson. Jefferson happened to be working closely with the foreign secretary and his connections were rumoured to be legendary. He was approaching sixty now, which made him a little over thirty years older than Mycroft and Mycroft held him in high esteem.

"Mr Holmes, when I was passing your door just now, I noticed a man – probably a vagrant – camping out in front of it. Filthy, wearing a hoody to cover his eyes, shaking hands, you know the type," Jefferson said close to his ear, his voice low, while he occasionally peered over his shoulder to ensure he was still outside hearing distance. "I don't know how he got in here. The security system must be broken again. I could call the police, if you like."

Mycroft gently extracted his arm for Jefferson's grip and cautiously advanced a few more steps into the hallway, until he had a clear view of the huddled figure leaning against his door. Briefly, the intruder turned his head and Mycroft was greeted with a flash of wide, blue eyes. He hesitated. Jefferson still stared at him as he turned back.

"It's fine, sir," Mycroft told him, his throat slightly raw, yet his voice clearly audible in the otherwise deserted hallway. "He's my brother."

Jefferson, as a man who had years of experience in and around the government, knew how to hide his true feelings, yet he did not manage to conceal a flicker of disdain and surprise before schooling his features into a neutral expression. "Ah. Well, I'd better be going then. If you're sure. Goodnight, Holmes!"

"Goodnight, sir," Mycroft said softly, but Jefferson was already retreating. Mycroft wondered how long it would take for the news of his brother being either a homeless man, a criminal or both made its way through his own department. Reluctantly, he turned back to Sherlock and approached him.

"Didn't think a man in your position would acknowledge my humble presence," Sherlock muttered, slowly getting up from the floor, but still leaning against the wall for support. Mycroft noticed his pupils were dilated and his whole body was shaking. His speech was laboured and every word seem to cause him trouble. "Hello, brother mine."

"What are you doing here?" It came out a little rougher than Mycroft had intended.

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, his gaze remained unfocussed. He licked his lips, while Mycroft fumbled with his keys and opened the door. "I … I took something."

Mycroft had already deducted that for himself. His twenty-three-year-old brother had been addicted to cocaine for at least two years now, despite Mycroft's attempts to persuade him to kick the habit. "So?"

"Experiment," Sherlock panted, doing his utmost to remain upright. He pushed his hoody back to reveal his pale face, sweaty brow and matted hair. "Not good."

Mycroft felt a surge of panic. "Inside."

Sherlock tried to move away from the wall, but his knees failed him almost instantly and Mycroft was forced to catch his little brother, his immaculate suit pressed against the filthy clothes. Together, they hobbled across the threshold, slammed the door behind them and made their way as quickly as possible into the living room where Mycroft deposited his brother onto the couch.

"How bad?" He asked, removing his suit jacket and tossing it unceremoniously upon a nearby chair. His hands found Sherlock's neck and he pressed his fingers against the carotid artery. The pulse was fast, but steady.

Sherlock batted his hands away. "No hospital. Please. It's fine. I'll be fine. I just … I need…"

"You just need someone to watch you to make sure you don't die during the night," Mycroft finished his sentence caustically. "And the only person you could think of, was me."

"I'll be _fine_."

"That's a guess."

"I don't guess."

"Yes, you do," Mycroft snapped. "Stay here, I'll get you a glass of water. Do you want something to eat?"

Sherlock looked vaguely nauseous at the suggestion and shook his head, before turning his gaze to the ceiling, staring up at it as if it was the most interesting thing in the world and ignoring Mycroft completely.

When Mycroft returned from the kitchen with a glass of water, Sherlock had removed his hoody and just wore an old, grey t-shirt. Mycroft noticed how frighteningly thin he had become. He put the glass on the table with more force than necessary, hoping to rouse his brother from his stupor. "Sherlock, drink this for me, please. If we're going to do this and if you don't want me to call an ambulance, you will obey me."

Sherlock picked up the glass with difficulty and managed a couple of sips. Mycroft noticed his pallor had been replaced by an unnatural flush.

"What did you take?"

Sherlock shrugged and avoided eye-contact. "Lost track."

Mycroft placed the back of his palm on his brother's forehead while preventing his brother from moving his head away with his other hand. "You have a fever. I'm running you a cold bath." He looked Sherlock up and down disdainfully. "You could use one anyway."

"I don't want…"

"Sherlock." Mycroft used a tone of voice that used to work on Sherlock when he'd been a small boy, but has long since lost effectiveness. It was a testament to his brother's exhaustion that Sherlock simply dropped back against the cushions of the couch and argued no more.

Getting his brother to the bathroom was no easy feat and Mycroft was sweating by the time he could sit Sherlock down on the lid of the toilet. Undressing him was slightly easier. He quickly fell back on the motions he'd used so many times in their childhood when he'd been charged with bathing his brother. Not allowing himself to be distracted by the fact that Sherlock was now an adult or the frightening extent of his malnourishment, he managed to strip Sherlock to his boxers, before hesitating. The younger man had been surprisingly compliant up to that point, watching Mycroft's movements with a detached interest and doing as ordered when told to act. Upon noticing Mycroft's slight pause, he gave a small shrug of his shoulders, as if saying 'I don't care' and Mycroft helped him up, quickly removed his underwear and settled him into the bath.

The drugs were increasingly starting to act like sedatives and Sherlock began to have difficulty keeping his eyes open. The water was cold and in a haze, he tried asking Mycroft to turn the hot tap on, but his brother was steadfast in his refusal. He attempted to do it himself, but Mycroft easily stilled his hands. While he'd made his way to Mycroft's apartment, Sherlock had concentrated his hardest to remain lucid and get himself to a safe place. Now that he'd arrived, it was as if a cloud had come over his mind. Mycroft's hands were in his hair and Sherlock remembered how nice it was, to have baths. He remembered all those evenings in their childhood home and how Mycroft had told him stories, while being gentle and warm and not at all like the politician in the three-piece-suit he'd one day become. But Mycroft's jacket was off now and his waistcoat untied. His sleeves were rolled up and half-wet, and he was almost the Mycroft of the past again. His brother My.

He didn't remember getting out of the bath. His next conscious thought found him lying in a bed, wrapped in a towel, covered by a thin blanket. The room was dark and he was comfortable. Mycroft was sitting next to him on a wooden chair and Sherlock tried to grab his hand and pull him into the bed, but Mycroft didn't want to. He'd changed his shirt and was neat again. Mr Mycroft Holmes, politician. Even in his state of half-sleep, it made Sherlock angry.

"You're Agamemnon," his voice was thick and raspy, and he stumbled over the long name. Mycroft just looked at him. "You're trying to … trying to fight my battles. But you can't. Even if, even if you had the whole Greek army. You still couldn't." He saw an expression of pain on his brother's face. "Because I'm a coward, My. I'm Menelaos and I can't win."

Mycroft looked as if he wanted to protest for a moment, then seemed to swallow his words. At last, he spoke: "And who is Helen in this comparison of yours?"

Helen. The most beautiful woman in the world, who'd been Menelaos' wife before being stolen from him. Agamemnon had tried to get her back for his little brother. The most precious possession. Menelaos' stolen treasure.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered and he was surprised to hear a sob in his own voice. "I have no Helen." A tear leaked from his eye and he told himself it was the drugs and not him. But the confusion that reigned over his mind made him wonder what being him actually entailed and before he was able to come to a satisfying conclusion, more tears escaped.

Mycroft placed a careful hand on his still damp curls. It was a controlled motion, almost as if he was afraid Sherlock would break if he touched them. "Go to sleep, brother mine."

And Sherlock did.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. All hail to Moffat, Gatiss and Doyle.

Summary: When he was a child, Mycroft decided to be the perfect host to his brother, based on Ancient Greek customs. Over the years, both he and Sherlock evaluate their relationship by comparing themselves to mythological hero's, while trying to keep each other safe.

**Filia – Chapter 4**

The knock on the door of his house was frantic and immediately followed by panicked banging on the windows. Mycroft's phone was in his hand at once, ready to dial his head of security, as he leaped up from his chair in front of the fireplace and made his way to the door. He checked the peephole first, then, with a sigh, opened up.

"Sherlock."

"You have to let me in!"

Mycroft was careful to only keep the door slightly ajar, preventing Sherlock from brushing past him.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock anxiously looked over his shoulder. He was out of breath and the collar of his coat was dishevelled.

"Why your hurry then?"

"It's Lestrade," Sherlock snapped. "Come on, let me in!"

Mycroft held his brother's gaze. "Did you take anything?"

"No!"

He knew all of Sherlock's faces and this was not a lie. Whatever else his brother had been up to, it didn't include substance abuse this time and for Mycroft, that was a big relief. "Come in."

Sherlock gratefully slipped past him, threw his coat and scarf on the hat stand and made his way into the living room to sit in Mycroft's chair. Mycroft chose not to sit, but placed himself in front of Sherlock, folding his arms across his chest. "Why is Lestrade after you?"

"He thinks I've taken something."

"Why?"

Sherlock sighed irritably. "It's been a long case. Involved some drug dealers." He cast a filthy look at Mycroft. "As if you don't know all about it. I'm sure you've had me followed since the start of it. Anyway, I didn't take anything." He held out a shaking hand to gesture with. "Lestrade is just paranoid."

"Yet you're trembling," Mycroft pointed out. "Are you ill?"

"Like I said: it was a long case. John's at his sister's." Sherlock looked slightly bashful for a moment. "You know."

A flicker of amusement crossed Mycroft's face. "Ah. So because of dear Dr Watson's regrettable absence, you have taken to starving and depriving yourself of sleep during your work. Just like the old days?"

Sherlock didn't deign his caustic words with a reply and moodily stared into the fireplace.

"And Detective Inspector Lestrade took the physical effects of your mistreatment of yourself as symptoms of substance abuse."

"Obviously. He wanted to test me."

"And why, pray tell me, little brother, did you not oblige him? According to you, you were in the right."

"I _am_ in the right," Sherlock hissed. "But he has no right or reason to question me."

"He has every right and every reason, as you well know," Mycroft pointed out sternly.

"He would've called John."

"So?"

"I don't want…" Sherlocked hesitated. "He shouldn't … I don't want him to come back for me."

"You don't want him to come back to take care of you," Mycroft corrected, studying his brother. "You don't want him to give you medical assistance or see you weakened."

Sherlock remained silent.

"I remember you once told me that heroes didn't exist. Why are you determined to make yourself into one for his benefit?"

Sherlock bristled and got unsteadily to his feet. "If you're just going to be your unbearable self, I'll see myself out."

"You wouldn't make it to the door," Mycroft said calmly. "You've solved your case and you've used your last reserve of energy and adrenaline to evade Lestrade and come here. So sit down and stop being so childish."

Sherlock obeyed the first, but not the second order. He crossed his arms and all but pouted. "I'm not weak."

"How many days haven't you eaten?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. Counted. "Seven, eight. Depends on your definition of eat, I suppose."

"And how long since you've slept?"

"Had to wait for a lab test five days ago. Dozed off for a few hours."

Mycroft sighed. "Move to the cough. I'll get the medical supplies."

Sherlock scowled at him. "I don't need an IV."

"Your other options are to either eat a complete meal right now or go to the hospital. And if you don't wish to comply with any of these suggestions," he placed a menacing emphasis on that last word, "I can always call Dr Watson to hear his medical opinion."

"You wouldn't!"

"Try me."

There was a moment of silence in which Sherlock attempted to stare his brother down, but he was proven unsuccessful. With some effort, he reluctantly got to his feet and deposited himself a few feet further on Mycroft's couch, taking extra care to make sure his shoes touched the expensive leather.

Mycroft's position in various branches of the Secret Service had required him to have medical skills and his first aid kit had been mostly used on his younger brother over the years. Sherlock's dangerous habits of starving himself during cases had led to fainting spells several times, followed by head injuries because of the falls. Previous efforts to make Sherlock eat after his metabolism had been idle for about a week had caused violent vomiting up of any food that made its way to his stomach, followed by hours of dry-heaving that even Mycroft didn't wish on his younger brother in order to teach him about proper nutrition habits. An IV was the most comfortable option.

Sherlock glared at the needle, but did extend his hand to Mycroft. It was proof of the misery of his current condition that he was willing to be compliant. Or perhaps it was just proof that Mycroft's threats of alerting John had worked.

Mycroft deftly inserted the needle and Sherlock didn't even wince. He hung the IV bag on a spare hat stand that served as a standard, while Sherlock wearily laid back against the cushions.

"I'll call Lestrade tomorrow morning. I'm sure I can persuade him that this was a misunderstanding."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Still fighting my battles for me."

Mycroft smiled wryly, remembering the conversation they'd had years ago. "I wouldn't have to if you learned the art of diplomacy."

"At least I didn't get arrested this time."

"True," Mycroft conceded. "You are learning. John has been a good influence."

Sherlock gave a quick, genuine smile. He opened his eyes again and the smile turned into a grin. "He's my Helen, Mycroft."

Mycroft laughed. It was ages since they'd shared a common joke, any connection that wasn't forced or uncomfortable. "I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear that."

Sherlock chuckled, before turning serious. "I was wrong back then, you know." Mycroft waited and allowed his brother to finish, watching as Sherlock picked absentmindedly at the piece of tape that held the IV needle in its place. "You're not Agamemnon." He took a deep breath. "You're Hektor."

The silence rang through Mycroft's large home. Mycroft mentally ran through the final paces of the Iliad. Hektor. The noblest and best of his family, defender of his city, doomed to perish on the battle field. Braver than his brother, destined to die bloody.

"I am still the coward, Paris," Sherlock continued. "The one who ruins it for the family, so to speak. The black sheep. While you're the golden boy, the one who has to save Troy. And sometimes you can." He made eye-contact for the first time, but only for a moment. "Look at tonight. Saved me once again. And you'll continue doing that, because you've got those outdated notions of _filia_, _arête_ or _virtus_ on your mind. I won't be able to repay that and in the end, it'll ruin you. You can't control it, Mycroft."

And Mycroft was suddenly reminded of that prison cell that had housed Moriarty for weeks, while his men had done their utmost to break him and to provide Mycroft with that _control _he was desperate for. In the end, they'd had to let him go and perhaps their exchange of information would turn out to be a Trojan horse. Do not ever trust the Greeks, even if they come bearing gifts. And Moriarty was definitely Odysseus in this metaphor.

He shook his head and dispelled the thoughts from the current scene. Sherlock could not know this. He gently placed his hand on his brother's, stilling his fiddling with the IV. "You've got your Helen."

"It won't last."

"I'll make sure it will." Sherlock looked up at him and for a second, Mycroft saw the pure, adulated admiration that had characterized his younger brother's relation with him in the first few years of his life. Then it faded and was replaced by scepticism. Mycroft held up his hand. "You should get some rest, Sherlock. There's no need to be anxious at this moment. My security is infallible and I could send a surveillance team to keep an eye on John if you'd like."

Sherlock gave a curt nod and Mycroft excused himself to make the call. Sherlock, in the meantime, turned on his side, careful not to pull the IV line. He kicked off his shoes, drew up his legs and assumed the same foetal position he was used to taking at his own flat. Mycroft's house was deadly quiet, except for the crackling of the fire. It was oddly soothing and it didn't take long before Sherlock found his eyelids drooping shut.

Mycroft returned only once. He draped a blanket over his brother, who only awake partially and stared up at Mycroft in the blank confusion of those not fully conscious. When Mycroft tried his best to retreat, Sherlock suddenly and strongly grabbed his wrist. His gaze was wild and agitated. Mycroft was painfully reminded of the days his brother had still been an addict. "I wouldn't leave you outside the gates alone. Not like Deiphobos or Athena, who tricked Hektor, while Priam and Hekabe looked on. I wouldn't."

"I know you wouldn't," Mycroft told him calmly and clearly, carefully loosening Sherlock's grip on his wrist and placing his hand back on the couch. "And he won't get me. Or you. Or John."

But Sherlock's eyes had closed again and he'd dropped off to sleep. Mycroft straightened up slowly. He'd often wondered why Hektor had chosen to fight Achilles, even though he could've run. It was the supreme example of courage conquering fear. For the first time, he thought he might understand how Hektor wouldn't be able to live with himself if he'd gone back inside the citadel. Just like that, Mycroft realized he wouldn't be able to live with himself either if it was his mistake that would allow Moriarty to triumph over his brother.

TBC

A/N: Difficult chapter, this one. There'll probably be one more. Do you guys still like it?


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. All hail to Moffat, Gatiss and Doyle.

Summary: When he was a child, Mycroft decided to be the perfect host to his brother, based on Ancient Greek customs. Over the years, both he and Sherlock evaluate their relationship by comparing themselves to mythological heroes, while trying to keep each other safe.

**Filia – Chapter 5**

Mycroft seldom made mistakes. It was his job to be infallible. No, scratch that. Not just his job, it was his duty. And now, standing in the deserted living room of 221B Baker Street, it became clear to him how immense his failure had been.

Sherlock had jumped. The little boy that had invaded his bed and begged for a story, the sullen teenager with his troubled mind and raging intellect, the beautiful adult with the philosophical spirit and the dreams of being a pirate had crashed to earth and died on the filthy pavement. His brother was dead.

Mycroft was familiar with the five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. He'd bypassed denial. There was no place for it in his character. He'd settled on anger. Deep, all-consuming rage that seldom penetrated the objective façade he'd erected for the benefit of the world. His normally so steady hands shook with it. The other stages were redundant. The inescapable fact that Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock was gone, could never be accepted.

Mycroft hadn't cried. Not even when Molly Hooper had lifted the sheet and shown him the body of his brother, had he broken down in tears. The only thing that had run through his mind had been the absurd notion that it was freezing in the morgue and that his brother must be cold. But Sherlock wasn't shivering, wasn't shaking, wasn't occupied by the perpetual movement that had busied him while he'd lived. Mycroft had raised his hand to touch his shoulder, perhaps brush through the black curls one final time, but something had kept him from it. He wanted to remember Sherlock warm.

Now that Sherlock had been the one to die, their conversation about Hektor outside the Trojan walls had become a painful recollection. Mycroft should've taken his place, but instead, his failing had been the knife in his brother's back. Perhaps that was the hardest element to take: the fact that Sherlock had jumped while knowing it was Mycroft who'd betrayed him.

Mycroft wasn't Hektor. He was Achilles, while Sherlock was his Patroklos. It was Achilles' arrogance and anger that had made him withdraw from battle to leave his friends to die. And eventually the man who was more dear to him than any other, Patroklos, had taken up Achilles' weapons. Unable to bear the deaths of their comrades, Patroklos had advanced against the Greeks and had found his own demise at the hands of Hektor. Achilles, in his rage, had killed Hektor. He'd taken Troy, died a glorious death of his own. But he'd never gotten his friend and partner back. Honour had been an empty victory.

It was Mycroft's fault. Sherlock was his Achilles' heel and it had made him blind to all danger. Moriarty had played his fears and he had won.

Sherlock was wrong too. Mycroft wanted to crumble the piece of paper with his brother's neat handwriting. His Patroklos. The note only contained two words in Sherlock's elegant script.

"_Goodbye, Castor."_

Mycroft folded it carefully and placed it into the pocket of his jacket. Achilles had taken his rage, his _menin_, and avenged the death of Patroklos. It was time for Mycroft to do the same.

Moriarty was his.

And Troy would burn.

**The End **

**A/N:** That was it! Too bleak to be the final chapters? :P. What did you think?


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